


The Lights on My Tree (I Wish You Could See)

by plaindealingvillainess



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaindealingvillainess/pseuds/plaindealingvillainess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever claimed that working for MI6 came with regular holidays. Bond and Q's first Christmas may not be exactly cozy, but it's sweet all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights on My Tree (I Wish You Could See)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ayantiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayantiel/gifts).



It all started with Spotify. _Spotify_ , and while Q’s hatred of it won’t catch up to his hatred of Windows anytime soon, there's something uniquely evil about a platform that makes it easy for his employees to put whatever terrible song has caught their attention on infinite repeat.

Bad enough when it was just the pop song of the week. But now? Now it’s Christmas time. And Christmas means the same fourteen-song playlist on repeat. Every. Working. Moment. From November 19th until New Years Eve. The chances of all of them staying out of Q’s head for the duration? Somewhere below a tenth of a percent.

_But I still have one wish to make_  
 _A special one for you_  
 _Merry Christmas darling_  
 _We’re apart, that’s true_

“Q?”

The man in question doesn’t blush, but has to clear his throat slightly before responding.

“Nothing, Bond. Go back to sleep while you can.”

“You were singing.”

“With such brilliant situational awareness, how do you manage to get shot this often?”

Silence. Q strains, but can only hear the rumble of jet engines. “Double-oh-seven?”

“Quartermaster.” They’re on a recorded line. Neither will risk first names or endearments, apologies or pleas.

He should—he shouldn’t. He _should_ snark back. Stick with the script, with subtext that everyone pretends not to understand, and let that be enough for the remaining six hours and twenty minutes of flight time, four hours of debrief, and fifteen minutes home. He should—but it’s Christmas, if only for another four hours, and the idea of closing the link after another few minutes of banter and returning home to stare out the window until James’ return is. Viciously painful.

“Have they at least got someone making sure that you don’t find a way to get shot in a company jet?”

“Unlike some people on this line, I don’t seem to need an unaccompanied minors programme.”

He can delete the recording, just this once. Site drunk coding after the Christmas Party or pure happenstance. He can, and he will, because it’s Christmas, and he needs. So he lets his voice soften, puts a hand to the headset in his ear as if James could feel the caress somehow.

“Maybe if you’d had someone with you, the mission wouldn’t have dragged on quite so long.”

There’s a moment of silence, a huff of laughter. “We were in contact nearly the whole time.”

Which, yes. It probably had been an idiotic thing to say, subtext and all. Even if they hadn’t been able to really talk, Q had at least been in touch with his agent, which was more than most in an inter-Six relationship could say. Should he have left well enough alone? It would have only been eleven hours at most, and if James really hadn’t wanted—

“Stop panicking. I did—miss you.”

And maybe it’s not the reassurance Q would receive in a perfect world, but he doesn’t want a world with anyone besides James, as he was. Any change to James, and he wouldn’t be his agent, and as ridiculous as it sounded to be talking in circles inside his own head, it made sense.

Because the moments where he trapped himself in those circles were fewer and farther apart, with James at his side. The man possessed an almost uncanny ability to tell when Q had been driving himself mad and needed a distraction, and when he needed to be left alone a little longer.

“Next time, try and convince your mad rich person of the week to avoid doomsday schemes close to major holidays. The ham’s going to be cinders.”

“I don’t exactly get much say in these things—hm—or even advance notice.”

That—was definitely a yawn. And Q’s smile manages to be both rueful and fond. James hasn’t had uninterrupted sleep in a good month, since he left for Georgia, and he’ll need to be at strength when he approaches M for debrief.

“If you need to go back to sleep…”

“You’ll sing me a lullaby?” The tease in James’ voice makes Q want to roll his eyes, but he resists. Mostly.

“I hardly think my caterwauling will do anything but keep you awake.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Quartermaster. I’ve heard worse.”

Q shakes his head, part exasperation and part the singular, growing relief that his agent is on his way to British soil. Maybe not in time for Christmas, but they can celebrate a holiday all their own.

“Go to sleep, double-oh-seven. You can hear my dulcet tones when you get home.”

“As you like. And Q? Happy Christmas.”

Q mutes his end of the line with a soft smile, letting the sound of his agent’s breathing carry him through the last hours of their separation.


End file.
